


The Birch Grove

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the moon.  It's pulling at them, and there's nothing to do for it.</p>
<p>Written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">Game of Thrones Kink Meme</a> on LiveJournal.  The prompt was:  Jaime/Sansa; teeth, full moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birch Grove

They make camp in a grove of birch trees; pale, slender things with a criss-cross of barren branches. Sansa’s slim white arms blend in with the tree trunks as she wends her way through the thicket, circling each birch, swinging and swaying in a mesmerizing rhythm. As Jaime watches her from the doorway of the tent, he marvels at how impervious she seems to the cold- she wears nothing but a diaphanous shift, her feet completely bare. Her hair is no longer that unfortunate mousy brown, but the rich, deep red that she inherited from her mother. The moonlight sifts through the branches and illuminates her pale limbs, catches in her wide blue eyes, reflects off of her small, sharp teeth. 

There is a full moon over Westeros tonight.

He takes a step into the grove, and the crunch of leaves under his feet catches her attention. She tilts her head to look at him, one arm and leg still wrapped around the birches. For a moment, her eyes retain that weird, dreamlike glaze that they’d held when she escaped from the Vale, but she quickly focuses- she’s getting better all the time. She smiles at him, a bright, blazing smile that shows all of her teeth- a lupine smile through and through. “Ser Jaime,” she whispers, just a light, wispy sound. 

And Gods, she is heartbreakingly, devastatingly beautiful. He’d expected to find a pretty child, but had come away with a glorious woman, a vision of red and white. His eyes trail over the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast, the long, lean muscles of her legs; there’s a burning in his blood, whether from the moon or from his long celibacy or from the sight of this ethereal creature weaving between the trees, coming closer and closer-

“Aren’t you cold?” he manages to hiss, and she laughs as she shakes her head, fiery hair bright against the whiteness all around. She flattens her back against a tree and the moonlight spills over her front- he can see the pinkness of her nipples beneath her sheer shift. For a moment, he wishes nothing more than to fall to his knees and take first one nipple and then the other between his teeth, nibbling and rolling until they flush red- his cock begins to twitch, and he knows that he must retreat to the tent...

But now she stands before him, just a hairsbreadth away, pushing him back into another tree as her arms wind around his waist. “But you’re cold, aren’t you?” she asks, pressing her cheek into his chest. His left hand rests on the small of her back, and he pulls her into him before he can stop to think it through.

She’s still talking, even as her fingers clench in the fabric of his tunic- “You haven’t the blood of the North in you.” And then she tilts her face up, that exquisite face, bathed in silver light, all gleaming eyes and sharp cheekbones and pointed incisors- before he knows it, he has his hand tangled in her thick red hair, and his lips are on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his teeth biting at her lip again and again and again until her blood trickles into his mouth- _I have the blood of the North in me now, haven’t I?_

He turns them until her back is against the tree; her shift catches on the bark, and the neckline falls over one shoulder. He sucks and nibbles his way over the ivory expanse of skin, and she whimpers and writhes. When he laves his tongue over a pulse point, he feels her blood churning and racing- _it’s the moon, it’s pulling at us, there’s nothing to do for it._

And he is on his knees now, the coolness of the ground seeping in through his breeches, his arms wrapped around her waist as his mouth moves over her breasts and stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin through the feather-light shift. He uses his left hand to tug at his own laces and slowly rub himself- he lifts the hem of her skirt with his golden hand and kisses her through her smallclothes. He sinks his teeth into the soft skin of her thigh, and she cries out, a wolf-like sound if ever there was one, her nails digging into his scalp. 

“Please,” she whimpers, pulling on his hair until he brings his head out from under her dress and fixes his green eyes on her blue ones. “Please, Jaime...I want...”

And Gods help him, but he wants, too. She’s light enough that he can lift her with only his left arm, bracing her back against the tree trunk. Her legs wrap easily around him, and then he’s thrusting into her, losing himself in her warm wetness, in the feel of her lips on his neck, her teeth worrying at the skin beneath his ear. 

The moonlight is everywhere, painting everything with its spectral glow. Dry, dying leaves fall from the branches and catch in their hair, and he can see the steam of their breath in the frigid air. Right before he comes, Jaime looks up at the sky and sees a bright star just past the tree that he has Sansa pressed against- they are facing northward. 

When they are through, he thinks to guide her back into the warmth of the tent, but she only smiles and pulls him down to the ground. She curls up in his lap, and they sit together, their shallow breaths joining with the raucous howling of the wind through the trees, a sound to rival the hungriest of wolf-packs.


End file.
